


in the low lamp light I was free

by sosobriquet



Series: 12 Days of Blasphemy [4]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), M/M, Oral Sex, implied - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-24 16:02:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21880666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sosobriquet/pseuds/sosobriquet
Summary: Aziraphale washes and bandages Crowley's burned feet. Things get a little intense.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: 12 Days of Blasphemy [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1571086
Comments: 16
Kudos: 176
Collections: 12 Days of Blasphemy





	in the low lamp light I was free

**Author's Note:**

> prompt for Day 4 of the 12 Days of Blasphemy: kneeling
> 
> (I think we can just assume I'm gonna stay late on this)

“Lift home?” Crowley offers, brusque and casual, walking away from Aziraphale even as he speaks. Expecting Aziraphale to follow.

For a long moment Aziraphale does not. He stands in the rubble, his rescued books safely in hand, and stares after Crowley.

Something--

No.

 _So many things_ bubble up inside him and overflow, pouring out from him. Like champagne from a bottle shaken and then opened with a _pop!_

The imagined sound of a champagne cork popping jolts him from his reverie, and he starts after Crowley; tripping over bits of debris in his hurry, but always holding tight to the gift Crowley had returned to him.

Crowley is already in the Bentley, waiting, when Aziraphale reaches it and slips inside. His hands are white as bone on the steering wheel, and Aziraphale’s heart still taps out an erratic beat against his ribs.

He does not intend to speak at first, fearful of saying the wrong thing with Crowley and himself so tightly strung. But Crowley makes no move to start the Bentley or pull away from the kerb.

“To the bookshop, my dear?” he suggests, very gently, and Crowley jerks into action like a wind-up toy. The key is turned in the ignition, the engine roars to life, and the Bentley shoots away from its parking spot; a bullet in the night.

Aziraphale sits quietly on his side of the Bentley, clutching the bag full of books in his lap, trying not to think about the tangle of his feelings and how they’re slowly unravelling. Soon, he won’t be able to leave them unnamed and unknown.

The Bentley pulls up in front of the bookshop, and still Crowley hasn’t spoken a word or so much as glanced at Aziraphale the whole way. He doesn’t move to get out, but simply sits, still white-knuckled, and now Aziraphale can see the way the tension sings across his forearms, his shoulders, the deep corners etched at his mouth.

“Will you come inside?” It’s half a question, half a demand, the way Aziraphale says it. He cannot, will not, _make_ Crowley do anything… but if his demon is looking for an excuse to run, Aziraphale isn’t ready to give it to him just yet. “Please.”

“Yes,” Crowley says, all the air in his lungs rushing out at once.

Once inside, Aziraphale gestures to the couch a touch imperiously. “Please sit,” he says, soft with a core of steel, and once again it’s not quite a request.

Crowley sits on the sofa, mostly upright for once in his life. He looks up at Aziraphale, eyebrows arching above his dark glasses at the angel’s tone.

“I’ll fetch something to drink,” Aziraphale says more gently.

When he returns, his arms are laden with much more than a bottle or three and a pair of appropriate glasses. Those sit stop the small pile, which begins with the very old washbasin held in Aziraphale’s hands, and also includes some rags, and bandages, and what looks to be a first aid kit.

He dumps the lot of it on the coffee table carefully, if not gracefully, and plucks everything from the basin. One glass he hands to Crowley, and fills generously with a very old, very strong dark wine. The smell of it fills the bookshop as Aziraphale drops to his knees at Crowley’s feet.

“May I see?” he asks, touching the top of a boot and watching Crowley’s eyebrows climb higher above his glasses, the bob of his Adam’s apple in his throat. 

“Aziraphale-” he croaks, but seems unable to say more. After a long moment, when Aziraphale is nearly ready to ask again, Crowley nods.

Aziraphale nods back, with a hesitant smile, and begins to unlace Crowley’s boot. He pulls the laces quite loose, tugging and adjusting the leather and snakeskin so that it’s as loose as he can make it without miraculous intervention. 

Despite how carefully he slips the boot from Crowley’s foot, his soft hiss of pain seems to echo through the shop like a shout. He sets it aside with a sympathetic wince, and glances up at Crowley to gauge if he should wait to remove the next one. 

Despite many years of practice reading Crowley's expression with glasses hiding half his face, Aziraphale can glean nothing from his impassive expression. Still, he searches Crowley's face for some sign, until Crowley removes his glasses with a sigh. 

"That what you wanted, angel?" He sounds tired, but he offers up a crooked half-smile.

Aziraphale catches himself staring up at Crowley's eyes, wanting to reach up and touch his face.

He clears his throat and drags his focus back to Crowley's feet. "Yes. Right. Thank you!" 

"You- you don't have to wear those when it's just us, you know," Aziraphale stumbles over the words, and hopes that Crowley can't feel the trembling in his fingers as he works the laces of the second boot loose. 

"I'd rather-" he tries to swallow his nerves. "I'd rather you didn't, actually," he admits, finally. After having wished it for centuries.

Crowley hums in response and leans past Aziraphale to place his glasses on the coffee table. The dim light from the gas lamps glints off the glass, off the planes of Crowley's exhausted face. Aziraphale wonders what the electric lights might reveal, were they not too dangerous to use during the bombardment.

"You know you won't be able to heal them," he says, sinking back into the sofa cushions and looking up at the ceiling so Aziraphale won't see him flinch when the boot gets pulled off. 

He isn't looking forward to the socks coming off.

"Well, dear, that's what the first aid kit is for," Aziraphale says, sounding equal parts exasperated and fond as he sets the boot next to its mate. 

Crowley huffs a little, almost a laugh, and sucks in a sharp breath between his teeth as Aziraphale miracles his socks into nonexistence.

"Sorry," comes the immediate apology. "I thought it would be best not to warn you… Are you alright?"

"I'm fine, angel. Take a lot more than that to do a demon in, don't you think?" It really wasn't so bad, no worse than walking on consecrated ground had been.

Aziraphale lifts one foot into his lap, careful to keep the sole from touching his trouser legs at all. He frowns down at the blistering skin before him, then looks up at Crowley. “Are you ready, my dear?”

Crowley nods, already worrying his lower lip between his teeth. With a snap, the basin is sitting at Aziraphale’s side, half full of steaming water, the edges lined with fresh rags. 

One hand wraps around Crowley’s ankle, and the fingers of the other spread across the top of his foot. Crowley grits his teeth in anticipation just as Aziraphale touches the pad of his thumb to the ball of Crowley’s foot. 

Though the touch is gentle, it still hurts, especially when the pins and needles start. Aziraphale must be trying to pull whatever traces of Holiness he’d found from Crowley’s flesh.

He’s still trembling with the aftershocks when Aziraphale touches his ankle gently, letting him know it’s over. Crowley lets himself shiver violently, once, from his head to his toes. “I’m alright,” he insists when Aziraphale hesitates in his ministrations, “please get on with it.”

Aziraphale dips a rag into the hot water and wraps it around Crowley’s foot. The heat of it stings, then soothes, and Aziraphale tugs the basin closer to lower Crowley’s foot into it. He folds a larger, incredibly soft-looking towel next to the basin.

The process is repeated with his other foot, while Crowley tries very hard to focus on how much his feet _burn_ and _ache_ instead of the sight of a certain angel kneeling at his feet. He has imagined a view similar to this more times than he can count, but the circumstances have always been considerably more erotic in nature.

Crowley squirms while Aziraphale pats each foot dry with an impossibly soft towel and extreme care, but utters no complaint aloud to stop him. 

Aziraphale strokes a finger down the blistered sole of Crowley's foot, putting the smallest healing he can on it. It must still burn, for Crowley jerks in his hold, and gasps his name like a drowning man. In apology, he presses his cheek to the inside of Crowley’s knee, where he would rather have placed a kiss if he’d dared. 

“Sorry,” he whispers, and Crowley twitches again. 

“It’s alright,” Crowley says, rough and breathless, “go on.”

Busying his shaking hands, Aziraphale slathers burn cream very gently over the sole of one foot, then the other. He distantly notes that the liberal application of cream is making a mess of his trouser legs, but he can’t bring himself to care. What’s a pair of trousers in the face of all Crowley has done for him? Of all the little hurts he’s inflicted on Crowley over the millennia?

He bandages Crowley’s feet efficiently, with sure and quiet hands, and tugs the bunched-up hems of his trousers back into their intended position. He leaves the wrinkles.

Aziraphale looks up just in time to catch Crowley reaching out to touch his cumulus-cloud hair. Feeling suddenly bold, Aziraphale catches that extended hand in one of his, and brings it to his cheek instead. He nuzzles his cheek into it, letting his eyes flutter closed, only to open them again so that he can watch Crolwey’s face as he places a kiss on Crowley’s wrist.

Crowley’s pupils go wide at the unexpected touch, and he sinks both his hands into Aziraphale’s hair with a soft sound. Aziraphale licks his lips, the slightest dart of a temptingly pink tongue, and Crowley pulls Aziraphale up onto his knees, flush against the front of the sofa.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale breathes, eyes dark, face flushed. Crowley leans down close, tilting Aziraphale’s face up, and stops.

“Is this what you want?” he asks, so close Aziraphale can taste his breath. Cinnamon and clove, bright and warm. 

Aziraphale nods but doesn’t speak, reaching out to crush the lapels of Crowley’s suit in his fists.

Crowley removes one hand from Aziraphale’s curls, stroking his knuckles down the curve of his cheek. His thumb presses into Aziraphale’s lips, against his teeth, until his mouth opens around it. Crowley’s breath hitches, his heart leaps, at the liberties Aziraphale is allowing him. He presses his thumb into the warmth of Aziraphale’s mouth, trapping his tongue beneath it before withdrawing it to rest, warm and wet, on Aziraphale’s plump lower lip.

“I asked you a question, angel,” Crowley says, low and expectant. “I want an answer.”

“Yes, Crowley,” Aziraphale answers, without hesitation, and tips his head forward to take Crowley’s thumb into his mouth again while his hands fumble for Crowley’s belt.

A sharp moan breaks from Crowley’s chest, and Aziraphale answers in kind, letting Crowley’s thumb slip from his mouth. Crowley’s belt clatters open, and Aziraphale presses his face into Crowley’s heaving ribs.

“Please,” he begs, undoing Crowley’s fly and reaching inside, “let me love you.”

Crowley half sobs at those words, and the much-fantasized-about hand wrapping around his cock. “Aziraphale,” he gasps, rocking into Aziraphale’s grip.

“Just for tonight.”

That punches a hole right through Crowley, but he’s gone too far to stop now, hasn’t he? He sinks his hands back into Aziraphale’s hair, and lets him slide back down to the floor.

“Yeah, just for tonight,” he promises, though it burns his mouth and his throat and his eyes. Aziraphale’s mouth on him as far hotter, and bound to leave more scars that will never heal.

Later, once Aziraphale’s satisfied and Crowley himself is spent, Crowley will pull him up into his lap. He will kiss the taste of himself from that sweet and longed-for mouth, and run his hands through feathersoft curls. And then he will do his best to try and forget that any of this ever happened.

 _I want to love you always,_ Crowley will never, ever say.


End file.
